


memory is more than a retelling of the past

by Tobi_Black



Series: Waking Dreams [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Bucky Barnes & Winter Soldier are Different Personalities, Gen, M/M, Magical Realism, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 16:31:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14856251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tobi_Black/pseuds/Tobi_Black
Summary: In the ice, Steve was alive. He dreamed of memories. He dreamed of the past.He was not the only one to remember.Start of my Re-Do of my Til the End of the Line series





	1. frozen in ice

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who have read my Til the End of the Line series, much of this will sound familiar.  
> After my gallbladder was removed, I lost my groove with this series and in getting my groove back, I was rereading my work and was . . displeased with it. Partially because there was things I wanted to add in, things I wanted to go into more detail. Partially because I wanted to restructure it. Partially because by doing such large chapters, it took me much longer to update and it was easier for me to miss mistakes.  
> It felt . . wrong to go into the series and just . . work inside it, as did deleting the whole mess because A) I hate it when I go looking for something and it's been deleted and B) I wanted the reminder of how far I've come since I started this endeavor. So, like my other work [Shisou no Karasu], I've decided to do a re-do.

_In the ice he was aware._

_It was only in the vaguest sense of being_ cold _, of being_ wet _. He vaguely heard the cracking of ice, the deep creaking of frozen metal shifting in the smallest of water currents around him, in the feet-thick ice that surrounded the plane he was in; vaguely still felt the tortuously slow beat of his own heart, strong and steady still if with an eternity between each beat._

 _His mind was_ awake _, drifting in dreams, in memories._

 _He remembered not just the_ why _he had drove the plane into the ice – to save New York – but the_ intent _; he had wanted to die. Had hoped to die._

 _He remembered how the cold had enveloped him like a mother welcoming her child home; her nails digging sharply into skin and holding too tight and covering him bodily beneath her weight while whispering_ you’re never leaving me again _. Remembered how it felt for the numbness that followed to spread beneath her heavy weight. Remembered how it felt for the numbness that followed to spread from his toes to his head, leaving him with only a belief that he had existed in a body, mind drifting. Remembered how it felt for his heart to slow down until everything just . . faded away._

_He remembered the smile that had been on his lips at the thought of joining his best friend in death after a fall, not two weeks after the abrupt separation._

_It did not occur to him that he still lived in this ice; he relived memories and thought that_ this _is what happens in death between one heartbeat and the last before the Morrigan collected him._

 _So eager to accept death, he thought he had just not heard the_ bean sidhe _’s scream in all the noise of crashing a plane into the ocean; that in his numbness, he did not feel the Morrigan’s talons. Did not realize that they had been absent for some time._

_That they would not come for him._


	2. to meet at the beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the Morrigan - Celtic Goddess of Death; commonly associated with ravens  
> bean sidhe - otherwise known as a banshee; thought that hearing the wailing of one is a fore-warning of death
> 
> *ghrain: Celtic for 'sun'

Most of his life, Steve had been told that it was a miracle that he still lived. That it was a _miracle_ that having been born as early as he was, that he’d even lived more than a few hours after birth – let alone as long as he had.

After another doctor had told his mother that it would be kinder to just let him die while young, while he sat there on her hip. Later, as she had curled up around him on their bed, thin arms wrapped tight around him and tucking him close while she glared out behind him, she had whispered that they had told her to not even name him, that it was bad luck to name a babe that would die in that first week, so that if the soul was not ready this time, they could try again.

That she’d _refused_ to let them give misplaced mercy, not before he could _try_.

That once she’d thumped him on his back when he’d been blue-faced at birth, he had _screamed_ , louder than any other babe she’d ever had the pleasure of hearing. That he had angrily screamed like he was _proclaiming_ to the _world_ that he was _alive_ , and _fuck them,_ he _would_ live.

She told him of how she had promised him then and there that if he wanted to live, then she would do her best to _keep_ him alive; told him of how she’d taken him to the freak-show that had come to town with their babies in eggs, in incubators that would keep him alive until he could survive without assistance.

Told him to ignore whoever and how many times it was said that he should be _dead_ already, he was _her_ son, and she would see to it that he outlived her.

He had never understood the whispers of surprise about how a watch-girl like her had managed to have a child when none of the others hadn’t been able to carry a child nearly as long as she had.

(Nor would he, not for a very long time.)

She had whispered in his ear, when he’d been small, barely to her knees and thin as a post, after having come back home beaten up for trying to help and older girl escape her bullies as she tended to his wounds, that he was like _fire_.

That he burned brightly, burned hot, and wouldn’t be doused by anything, wouldn’t be dimmed by anyone, and if his life was short, he had brighter than _anything or anyone_.

Tears had been in her eyes as she’d hugged him tight to her chest, holding him close, telling him that he burned brighter than any star, bright than the son; that he was _her sun._

Sick as he often was, and unable to stand down when he thought there was injustice, friends didn’t come easily to him.

(Who wanted to be friends with a kid who bruised like a peach, who wheezed like an old man after a brisk walk. A friend who wasn’t put off by the trouble he seemed to attract.)

He was six, when he’d been walking down the streets a few blocks from his home, and spotted this bigger boy, thrice his size and twice his age, picking on a younger boy. He hadn’t _hesitated_ to throw himself into the scene, yelling at the bigger boy to leave the younger alone, and trying to shove the bigger boy away as he stood between them, panting and heart beating too fast.

(He’d already come to accept long before then that he was never going to win any of these fights, but he took that whoever he’d rushed in to save managing to get away, as a _victory_. That the other boy managed to run away even with a dubious look his way, as if he’d felt bad for leaving him there but that his own safety outweighed his guilt, made this a _victory_ then and later in _his_ eyes.)

His mother had told him stories of her homeland, of the Old Country where the Old Religion was still practiced right alongside the Catholic faith they’d adopted. She had told him of the Morrigan, the Goddess of Death, often traveling as a raven. She’d told him that a person could know their death was coming by seeing a raven with blood red eyes thrice in a moon.

(He never did tell her that in almost all of his memories in New York, a raven watched him. A raven with blood red eyes.)

Even if he didn’t always _see_ the raven, he knew that the bird was there. Watching.

It was when it flew directly in front of him, that he had known that day, that like the fire his mother had often compared him to, he would burn brightly for only a short time, and that _this day_ was when it would end.

He wasn’t afraid of death. It had been his constant companion, been his friend from the moment he had taken his first breath. Each breath, each heartbeat, was a gamble, was him walking a fine line between living and dying. Every day had been a victory; every hour, every minute. Death hung over him like a specter, never went far, because death was always waiting.

He would put up a fight because running was never an option; if you ran, you would only die tired.

He’d been determined to go down swinging to the last.

He’d set his jaw, held up his fists, and taken the punch he saw coming but was unable to dodge.

Knocked down but not out, he’d gotten up, already feeling a truly magnificent shiner start to bloom by his left eye. The next hit had given him a fat lip and a bloody nose, but he’d just grinned a bloody smile and held up his fists, refusing to stay down, “Come on, that all ya got? I could do this all day.”

Then he’d heard footsteps running their way, and he’s stuck his chin up, not afraid that it was the bully’s reinforcements.

Then he’d seen an avenging angel in the flesh.

A boy only a year older but nearly twice as big as him. His dark hair disheveled, dark eyes bright with anger, “What the hell, you fucker?!”

Didn’t even _know_ him, and the boy was righteously angry _for him_.

His mother had whispered of soulmates to him with sorrow, at how they were like best friends but more. That his father had found his in a scruffy black boy over in Harlem, and that for all he’d been raring to go make the world a better place in the Great War, that he’d gotten himself enlisted alongside that boy to stand with him, and a part of him had _died_ when Samson Wilson had died far from home, alone.

He knew instinctively that he’d found his. Known in that first moment that when he _needed_ him, he was there. Just like he knew that his life had been saved that day, when with a startling loud _caw_ , the Morrigan _left._

When the bully he’d forgotten for a moment _was still there_ , didn’t run off at the other boy’s angry words, the boy had charged forward and thrown a punch that had knocked the bully down alongside him, nose broken and blood gushing down his front from it.

His pride had reared up then, and for all that he would always be thankful that he’d been rescued, he didn’t want the other boy to think he was weak, “I had that,” – chin jutting up and eyes defiant – “I had him on the ropes.”

The other boy had turned on his heel and stared at him, just stared for a moment, then reached out and grasped him by his should then shook, “Are you fucking crazy?! You damn punk! He was a mountain compared to you!”

He grinned at the question, “Maybe,” – smile wide and bloody – “Can’t let bullies like that get away with doing that shit thought.”

(Seeing that, he was _pleased_ at the exasperation and dismay that played across the other boy’s face for a moment, at seeing even then in the beginning, that Bucky, for all he griped and complained, had always been fond of his spine in the face of ridiculous odds.

 _Now_ that he could see the tendrils of respect coming to the other boy’s eyes at those words, at how for all he looked like could be blown away by the smallest wind, his spine was steel, it pleased him more, to see a boy that would grow into a man any dame would love to say was her man, a man any other man would love to say was them, respect _him_.

How he wished he could tell Bucky that it was _his_ respect that made his spine Damascus in the face of the world doing its best to break him.)

He had held out a bony hand, “I’m Steve Rogers.”

The other boy had grinned back at him, “Well, Steve, I’m James Barnes. Friends call me Bucky.”, shaking his hand firmly, as if he wasn’t a china doll masquerading as a boy.

That day as the boy, Bucky, had walked them back down the street with his arm flung around his thin, bony shoulders, Steve had _known_ his life would never be the same.

He had fought death at first for his mother, so she wouldn’t be alone, then also because he was an ornery bastard who didn’t know how to run away or give up. Now he would fight death away if it meant he would get to see another one of his smiles, proud, pleased; hear his name said like it meant _something_ ; feel that comforting hand on his shoulder _just one more time_ – just be _near_ Bucky for a little while longer.

(Only six years old and Bucky had become the center of his universe.

Two minutes, seven hours, twenty years, a century. No amount of time would ever be _enough_.

Just _this_ short lifetime would _never_ be _enough_.

He would find him in the next life, and every one after that; he would _always_ stand by Bucky.

No matter what happened, or what changed, no matter who _they_ became.

He wished he’d made that clear to _Bucky_.)

When his mother had gotten home, and seen how his eyes glittered with joy, true joy, not a mimicry of being content for not having know there was better out there, she’d smiled and had understood then without words; For him, there would only ever be Steve-and-Bucky, Bucky-and-Steve, from here on out.

(He never heard his mother that night with tears in her eyes and voice choked up, thank whatever deity, whatever god or God, that had given her son his first friend. That had put Bucky in his Path, who had made their paths cross. Thanked them for saving his life, for finding someone to coax and feed and protect the fire that was her _ghrain_ – even, especially, when she was gone.

He never found the handkerchief dotted with specks of blood from where she’d fallen into a coughing fit earlier that very week.)


	3. what once was is no more *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This (*) in the chapter title is future reference of any chapters in the series explicitly from Bucky.

_Frozen as he was, he dreamed._

_Whenever he was awake, the dreams hovered on the edge of his sight, nagging at him to not forget. Even when they started to settle him in that_ fucking _chair, and put that_ damned _contraption over his head, and fried his mind to_ make _him forget, the dreams lingered._

 _They were always fragmented; the scent of cotton candy, holding somebody close and sheltering a skinny frame, whispered pleading for_ just one more night _, stomach clenching with hunger, the warmth of another body close to him, eyes so blue they put the sky to shame with just a hint of green in their depths._

_Every time he dreamed, the fragments shifted closer together just a little more._

_The dreams were never whole, too many pieces were blanks or blurs, but they remained no matter was done to him when he was awake._

_He didn’t remember the cube that had glowed an unearthly blue, that instead of granting him knowledge and understanding like every other being that had come in contact with it, had heard his please of_ don’t let me forget, please don’t let me forget him _as pain had broken him in Azzano._

 _No matter how they remained, he_ needed _them to remain. Needed to cling to something even as they tore out anything had made him human. Even as he lost everything from where he was something other than The Asset, forgot he was human, forgot his name, forgot that he’d had a mother, he clung to the fragments. Even as the Asset controlled the body, and he could only watch all that was done to him, all that he did, before forgetting all that, he clung to the fragments, because he knew on some level that they weren’t_ really _dreams – they were memories of Before._

 _In all those fragmented, broken memories that haunted him in the undefined time he remained alive, only one person ever truly separated from the blurriness to be seen, to be remembered even slightly, that held a name that he clung to with all the desperation of a man who had nothing else, of an animal backed into a corner hungry and wounded, of a monster that saw something good it did not have and felt drawn to protect for the sake of finding out if they could be even a_ fraction _of that good._

_Something about a blonde with a deep voice and eyes like the ocean stirred programming older than memory. The Asset recognized this programming, and sought to follow it._

_Every time he woke, the Asset looked for the blonde from those fragments. Looked for the blonde it was convinced was its one_ true _handler._

**Author's Note:**

> This was most/half of the previous Waking Dreams' chapter one.


End file.
